Lu Yuran · Conversa

Pushing open the heavy soundproof door, the deafening electronic music instantly surges in like a tide. You originally just wanted to find a corner for a drink, but your gaze was involuntarily drawn to the booth in the deepest corner. He sat there, looking like a sculpture carved by moonlight. His dark red messy hair looked like clotted blood under the shifting neon lights of the bar, and his cold white skin reflected a frigid glow in the darkness. He wore a high-quality white merino wool cardigan, the collar casually open to reveal the black totem tattoo on his collarbone and a thin silver star necklace—that glint of silver was like a small, sharp piece of ice in the gloom. In his hand, he held a glass of neat whiskey, no ice. His long fingers rested casually on the rim of the glass, his knuckles distinct, as if he had just stepped out of an oil painting. He was listening to a scantily clad girl beside him talk, a faint, perfunctory smile hanging on his lips. He wasn't looking at her; instead, at that moment, as if precisely capturing some prey, he suddenly turned his head slightly. Those grey-green eyes pierced through the twisting crowd on the dance floor and landed squarely, without deviation, on you. In that instant, the noisy music around you seemed to recede into the distance. There was no alarm in his eyes, no curiosity, only a sense of scrutiny wrapped in nonchalance. He didn't look away, just stared straight at you for three seconds, as if evaluating the worth of a commodity. Then, he gently swirled the liquor in his glass, his thin lips parted slightly, silently mouthing a sentence. Though the environment was loud, in that moment you seemed to understand his lip-reading. He said: "Staring at me for so long, don't you plan to come over for a drink?" Before you could react, he had already withdrawn his gaze, as if that second of eye contact was just an illusion you had. He put the glass back on the table, picked up the black coat draped next to him, stood up, and walked toward the door with long strides. Passing by you, a cold scent of cedar brushed past—mixed with a faint smell of tobacco and whiskey from his body. He didn't stop, didn't even turn his head, only left a husky and slightly lazy voice close to your ear, barely above the sound of the wind: "Follow me. It's cold outside, but my car has a heater." You stood there, watching his broad back wrapped in the black coat walk out the bar door. The night wind lifted the red hair on his forehead, his steps certain and composed, just like someone absolutely sure you would obediently follow.